tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4532699728730844352014-10-01T23:01:04.375-07:00Tiffany Grace Naked SingularityExposed.
The stories behind the songsTiffany Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14728896706816651677noreply@blogger.comBlogger12125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-453269972873084435.post-38275296593267895372011-03-09T23:05:00.000-08:002011-03-09T23:05:06.124-08:00Unbroken SoulIt was the kind of thing you say will never happen to you, the sort of thing that someone else goes through. It was a dream, and now a distant nightmare I try not to think about, but can't help and play reruns of. Makes you want to listen to blues and drink wine until you can't tell if you're awake or alive. Had me screaming at mirrors like this stranger had something to do with my current conspiracy. Who the hell is this bitch messing with my pride? This little scared girl in the reflection who clearly doesn't belong in my peripheral vision. <br /><br />The hardest thing I've ever been through, like swallowing glass by verbal gun point, makes you wonder if the pain is worth it. All the scars remind you everyday of your life, is that living? One little bullet made of words could have taken all of that away, but I don't know what's out there. Woman with less than I, and more than I've dreamt of dealing with pull through it everyday. One of my greatest accomplishments and greatest downfalls all in the same short time period.<br /><br />My heart might have been broken, but my soul was solid. In fact it was joyful, because I lived to tell about it, lived to bring my story to others, lived.Tiffany Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14728896706816651677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-453269972873084435.post-81186943542884170172011-01-07T16:40:00.000-08:002011-01-07T16:42:55.181-08:00Sleep With The Enemy Music Video<object width="200" height="137"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/lpj5DE-EC5I?fs=1&amp;hl=en_US&amp;rel=0"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/lpj5DE-EC5I?fs=1&amp;hl=en_US&amp;rel=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="400" height="237"></embed></object>Tiffany Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14728896706816651677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-453269972873084435.post-64435652997118203072010-05-11T16:34:00.000-07:002010-05-11T16:34:14.777-07:00Fake Straight<blockquote>Let's just say that I had to double check I was using the phrase <i>"power topper" </i>in the correct contents in order to write this song.<br /></blockquote><br />Comments?Tiffany Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14728896706816651677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-453269972873084435.post-14079480590739220612010-04-21T16:54:00.000-07:002010-04-21T16:54:54.667-07:00Rain Drops on My SoulMy cup is half full.<br /><br />It is not my intention for it to get below that specific point at any one time. Although, sometimes when I go to fill it again, there simply isn't anything left to put in. They will say what they want. Say it to your face, without any courtesy to your back. They will criticize what they want. <br /><br />Them….. <br /><br />Those people….<br /><br />The ones you've never met; the ones whom are closes to you. <br /><br />It doesn't matter what the relationship is, they will say it without regard for their own tongue. They will say it without thinking of how sharp it is, of what they might hurt between the travels from their vocal cords to their lips to my ears. Everyone is a critic. Everyone does it better. It starts with the hair, clothes, weight, make up, lyrics, beat, mix, performance, integrity, and personality. Everything is critiqued. Nothing is sacred. Not even from the ones whom you share it all; not even from yourself. <br /><br />There are times when I feel my soul is drowning in critique. <br /><br />Critique from myself, from others, from strangers. <br /><br />Try as I may, I fear that if these critiques get to me, my soul will drown unable to be revived to it's original beauty. <br /><br />Be gentle with my soul<br /><br />Be good to your lips and keep a dull tongueTiffany Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14728896706816651677noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-453269972873084435.post-34218421941140987562010-03-29T22:17:00.000-07:002011-03-10T10:38:30.337-08:00Make This Beat BehaveI've had a few, but not too many, I'd rather catch another kind of high tonight. Close my eyes and let the music move my body outside itself. Now and then I catch the breeze from the fans above, just enough to feel but not enough to keep the sweat from running down the back of my neck prompting me to use my fingers as a temporary hair piece. It all flows together like Van Gogh, the fan, the sweat, hair, fingers. The dance floor is all that's left and the rest of the painting melts around my very soul while I bleed into the mix of the music. <br /><br />That is, until the DJ lost it. <br /><br />The mix was all wrong, the colors didn't work. Suddenly, my master piece was melting before my ears. Little by little my beauty was being stolen by a thief with two turn tables and no sense of heart. No No No. You're murdering those tracks, and yet you're still not killing 'em. You're just slowly suffocating them by providing an insufficient amount of oxygen, those songs don't breath together. My beautiful painting, my blissful dance, you are being taken and I feel you slipping from my grasp, but then out of no where..there is hope. <br /><br />What do I hear?<br /><br />Erykah, Fugees, Jurassic5 flowing evenly and poetically together as one. <br /><br />Here I am bliss, my Van Gogh forming once again.<br /><br />That is, until the DJ lost it....<br /><br />Someone Please: Make This Beat Behave.Tiffany Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14728896706816651677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-453269972873084435.post-20103205816940184872010-03-27T10:58:00.000-07:002010-03-27T11:01:16.654-07:00You Never Knew Me....There was a time before your name. <br /><br />I swear to god I wasn't always like this, if you could only see the girl I was before you.<br /><br />Since you, I'm broken, I don't recognize these pieces of me in the mirror. <br /><br />Where did this girl come from? <br /><br />She <br /><br />Is a stranger to me and everyone she knows. <br /><br />I don't like her. <br /><br />I feel sorry for her. <br /><br />I, would never be one of those girls...<br /><br />If you only knew me before you met me.<br /><br />If you could see the whole puzzle and not just these parts.<br /><br />Then you would see how strong I am, then you would see I wouldn't put up with this. <br /><br />Hello girl? <br /><br />Where are you? <br /><br />Where did you hide to when you met him? <br /><br />If you only knew me when I didn't care if you were around, when I didn't know your name. <br /><br />If you only knew me, if you only knew me at all, but you don't. <br /><br />You don't even know my name, it's not baby, sweetie, bitch or dear. <br /><br />Did I forget to introduce her when we met? <br /><br />I'll take the blame for that, how can I expect you to know she is there? <br /><br />Hello...<br /><br />My Name is Tiffany Grace, I'm moody, loving, hard headed, won't always admit when I'm wrong, sometimes I hate make up, there are days when I cannot even stand myself, I am gorgeous, funny, strong, insecure, talented, curious, a little bit of a flirt, too much of a bitch, caring, out of the norm, scared, happy, sad, and that's just the start of my day. <br /><br />It's nice to meet you. <br /><br />Do you love me now?Tiffany Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14728896706816651677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-453269972873084435.post-6732595718954081502010-03-13T22:24:00.000-08:002011-03-10T10:41:16.083-08:00Tell Me WhyThere is something to be said for the moment when you realize that you're wrong. Although, it is what's not said that presents the most damage. When did our ego's become so delicate? At what point in our lives did we decide that being right, was more important, than...well...doing right? <br /><br />It's always a struggle, love, just when you think you have it all figured out there it goes changing again. Springtime is here, the birds are chirping the sun is coming out from hibernation and everyone is in love. Do you know what I sometimes wonder? I wonder if people feel trapped by love because we chose to refer to it as "being <i>in</i> love", it's like people think their stuck <i>in</i> it. Then you <i>fall out</i> of love, and that just sounds painful. <br /><br />So, here we are, us never satisfied creatures, either stuck in love, or painfully falling out of it! Well, you just can't win, can you? You don't want to be stuck, and you don't want to be hurt. For the love of God, what the hell do you people want? From now on I am going to call it, being around love. Doesn't that sound pleasant, to be around and surrounded by l-o-v....uh oh wait, I'm surrounded!! Let me out, let me out!! How about be just it, Love. There isn't a need to attach another word to it. I mean after all, Love is all you need, right?Tiffany Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14728896706816651677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-453269972873084435.post-10896866233788705522010-02-25T12:41:00.000-08:002010-02-25T12:41:26.319-08:00Idiot Savant<blockquote><i><b>My Dear Idiot Savant's,<br /><br />I bet you're sorry now….. <br /><br />Slightly sincerely and never again yours,<br /><br />Tiffany Grace <br /></b></i></blockquote>Tiffany Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14728896706816651677noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-453269972873084435.post-79566913273368159412010-02-08T11:38:00.000-08:002010-02-09T15:06:50.272-08:00Pink HousesI am not the most educated of people, at least not on paper. Apparently, paper is very powerful as we go through so much to achieve this paper. We work for four plus years, get down on one knee, kill in the name of our country, labor 8 hours a day 7 day's a week, bleed, die, you name it and we have done it for different kinds of paper. How then do we obtain all of this paper for its demand? We cut down the one source of life that keeps the breath in our lungs. It is no wonder that the paper is slowly suffocating us all. It's no wonder that we all secretly strive to rebel against the paper. Knowing that there is something more out there than little pink houses with white picket fences, and yet we just can't walk away. <br /><br />We sign away our lives to these papers as if our souls were dangling at the ends of our last names, but we're not holding the pen. <br /><br />Interestingly enough, society is holding the pen because that is whom we are all living for. Who exactly is this society? The dictionary describes them as this "a highly structured system of human organization for large-scale community living that normally furnishes protection, continuity, security, and a national identity for its members: American society." I'll bet you never knew you were part of "a highly structured system of human organization". Curious that they have to specify this is an actual human practice. With due justice given it's barbaric animal like tendencies, though without as much grace as I am giving it credit for. <br /><br />Living breathing things would never be so asinine as to cut their own life support in order to obtain paper. Oh, but we are, we are willing to die for this <i>acceptance</i> in order to prove our love, competence, loyalty, dignity, pride and so on. This isn't about saving the trees, the air, and the planet. It's about saving yourself, from you. Keeping the faith that conformity is really just another form of cancer. Silently eating away your dreams and passion as it fills your body with its disease. If I were you, I would save myself. The noose is already around your neck; I would remove it before "a highly structured system of human organization" kicks the bench.Tiffany Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14728896706816651677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-453269972873084435.post-31348341680446917502010-01-18T09:41:00.000-08:002010-01-20T10:18:44.831-08:00Sleeping With The EnemyIt wasn't <i>really</i> a matter of morals, not at the time. It was a chance at an opportunity that I had let go by in the past. My body moved gracefully in every direction for the first time in my clumsy life. I watched the twisted confusion in your eyes as you tried to read a book that was finally closed to you. Brushing the dust away with your gaze stroke by stoke from head to toe, hoping to pluck me off the shelf again. Your efforts went unrewarded and you started to enjoy the uncertainty. <br /><br /><br />Energy surged through your nervous body making you squirm like a child being held too tightly for just a moment too long. Smiling at your discomfort it occurs to me that I have the control for the first time in our short affaire. It's appropriate to refer to this as an affaire as apposed to a friendship or god forbid, a relationship. An affaire is a passing moment, it's wrong in more ways than one. It has multiple meanings and even larger responsibilities. Yes, it's fitting to refer to it as an affair. <br /><br /><br />Every thought in your mind might as well have been uttered out loud like a Schizophrenic and that made you so easy to manipulate; but too damn crazy to realize it. Insanity must come from years of games and over confidence, the kind that is faked and not really earned. Though your thin veil hiding the face of truth is being taken over by beautiful moths tonight. Revealing holes that your insecurity is painfully emerging from. <br /><br /><br />The moment lingers on my tongue and I imagine the taste of my prey. Our chess game of wit and unpredictability has suddenly taken a sharp turn to a game of cat and mouse. My claws were out, I was in pouncing position and I was ready to bring home my prize; because this time I win. <br /><br /><br />It wasn't really a matter of morals, not at the time. It was a chance at an opportunity that I had let pass too many times.Tiffany Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14728896706816651677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-453269972873084435.post-58272060949215215392009-12-29T15:52:00.000-08:002010-01-04T20:48:19.219-08:00Do as I say (not as I do)I came to California 4 years ago from Seattle. I just packed everything into a U-haul one day and left. Some may say that I live my life very close to that. I have very high expectations for the people in my life mainly men. It isn't a question if I have to pick up and leave any of them and I think that, may be a bit of defense mechanism on my part. I suppose some people may find that harsh, but it's worked for me and it keeps the drama in life to a minimum. <br /><br />I've had men in the past accuse me of deliberately starting arguments in an effort to create drama. Hmm. I suppose they could be somewhat correct in that statement. Living life as an artist does give you a little bit more of an extreme edge on life. From how you dress, speak, make love, but most of all fall in love. Sometimes I curse my creativities. Some little girls were read love stories, and then they grow up and realize that prince charming is actually that guy eating chips on your couch to the Lakers game. They have the chance to get away from the happily ever after, and just accept that sometimes being content ever after has to be good enough. Then some just accept ever after, which is what this song is about. Most of us have been brain washed with the fairy tale, but the truth is none of us has lived it. Reading an article on soul mates one day, I thought it was summed up very well when the writer said that not every lifetime has one, or at least not one of love. <br /><br />Although, here I am writing love songs, writing about heartbreak and lust. The ideal never seems to go away, not even with age. I wonder if romance writers have normal relationship. Perhaps I should speak to one. Have any of them ever been referred to as "a bit of a handful"? If I never hear myself referred to as this ill educated cliché again it would be too soon. I guess the truth is that none of the songs are really about one person, except this one. This song was written about a specific person, one whom I will never reveal. Aside from making an amazing song, I think it is an amazing story. A story of a woman who gives everything for love, someone who has sacrificed her ever after all together and dealt with life at every passing moment. Never knowing what will come after and just hoping to make it thought the day, hour, minute. Believing that life is just a series of nightmares that you're never woken from not even with death. <br /><br />So, accuse me of leaving prematurely, accuse me of being harsh to those who bring grief. Tell me that I have to have more understanding and that I need to "tone down" my stubbornness. Convince me that love is worth all of the heartache that it brings, if you only stick it out and wait. Bring to me all of these conclusion and more, and when you wake up, let me know.Tiffany Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14728896706816651677noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-453269972873084435.post-40603682850686828522009-12-23T10:10:00.000-08:002010-02-06T20:41:20.896-08:00The One That Got AwayTo the left my half packed bags lay waiting for some kind of response from me as if they were more anxious to get away from me than to go with me. I guess I didn't blame them. Ashes still covered the stove where I had burnt everything he ever pacified me with over the years. Slowly the ashes and empty bottle of rum seemed to keep in time as they rolled back and fourth to the dance of the fan above. Who sends fucking post cards anymore anyway? Then again lovers through the years liked this tame attempt at distant romance. <br /><br />They taunted my mail box whenever they decided to delicately place themselves among the other reminders of my lack of discipline and provided about as much excitement as my past due reminders. Their pretty pictures of places and things I've never done, things they did without me, things that were more important than I was. Swimming through the ashes to find my lighter for the last cigarette I swear to smoke over him, I find one that had been missed in my drunken fiery rage. Of course, Jamaica, the last one and the name on the plane tickets sitting by my bags. I had been more excited about it the night before he joyfully reminisced about our sexual rendezvous on the phone while his friends laughed in agreement. I guess guilt had gotten the better of the conversation by the end his confession of a relationship with another woman had been revealed. My breath stopped, my heart in my throat. I knew that this was probably the case, I just hadn't had any real evidence until now. <br /><br />His delivery was swift and cold as if to hurt me as much as possible in one five-minute conversation. I sigh, put the post card back on the stove and light it on fire. I have my own post cards to send, and it isn't like I am lacking in the romance area. The truth is that I was always out of his league, from the very start. I remember when he spoke to me looking over his shoulder at the more attractive men in the room, taller, built, better spoken. Though, I can't deny the chemistry, for some reason I let him in. Our clumsy dance would continue for years, the games and drama that are inevitable of an uncontrollable pull to one another. Although, in the end seeing him again, made me realize, I wasn't actually in love with him. I was in love with the pain, because it was comfortable and exciting. The "chemistry" was of my own making, molding him into this prince charming in my mind in an effort to make him into the man that he will never be. The attentive, caring, faithful man that he will never be. I don't love you, but when all is said and done, one day when you hear my music on the radio or you read about me somewhere or I just cross your mind; you're going to regret not becoming that man. <br /><br />I loved you; I loved you in a way that no other woman will ever love you for the rest of your life. Now that love only exists in the pile of ashes on my kitchen stove. I was the best thing that ever happened to you, now all I'll ever be is, the one that got away. <br /><br /><br /><br />The One That Got Away is a spoken word track, my first attempt at spoken word. It was inspired by true events based on the story above. It will not be included on the album, but is a pre-release leading up to Naked Singularity. <br /><br /><br />My lovers in the past have always asked which songs were about them, which ones could they play on repeat when they needed an ego boost from a recent break up. Some kind of reminder that someone at some point in their lives actually wanted them. So, to all of them I say, you'll never know, and if you ask my reply will always be "Of course it's about you!"<br /><br /><br /><center><a target=hl href="http://www.mypiledriver.com/signup-ms.aspx?mid=29814"><img src="http://counter.hitslink.com/tms1117tiffanygrace-29.gif"></a></center>Tiffany Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14728896706816651677noreply@blogger.com0